


To Tell You The Truth

by for_the_love_of_wolves



Series: Teen Wolf Bingo [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Confessions, Hospitals, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Wolfsbane, Wolfsbane Poisoning, everyone is pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27623240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_the_love_of_wolves/pseuds/for_the_love_of_wolves
Summary: Stiles and Derek are in love but haven't admitted it to each other yet. Peter thinks they should finally talk and stop pestering everyone with their disgusting pining. However, when he manages to get drunk on wolfsbane laced whiskey AND stabbed with a knife also coated in wolfsbane, Peter is forced to realise he has some talking to do himself.Or: Everyone is pining and one of them decides it is time for hard facts.
Relationships: Chris Argent/Peter Hale, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Teen Wolf Bingo [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1834501
Comments: 10
Kudos: 211
Collections: Teen Wolf Bingo





	To Tell You The Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Teen Wolf Bingo, Square: Poison 
> 
> Tw for a lot of swearing.

Watching Derek and Stiles is kind of nauseating. 

They are sitting suspiciously close together on the couch, watching a movie, their scents combining and forming a mix of sweet contentment and desperate pining. 

Peter wrinkles his nose and averts his gaze, looking over to where Scott is bent over a map of Beacon Hills, discussing some plan with Erica and Lydia. Unfortunately, these two have the same cloud of fondness and pining floating around them. 

Gods. Love is literal in the air. But no one is talking about it. Peter rolls his eyes and wishes he wouldn’t have agreed to come to this pack meeting. The problem is, his stupid wolf still longs for bonds, and to get bonds, he has to connect with the pack at least sometimes. He is not eager to become a feral Omega, so he has to deal with the teenagers and his nephew’s unspoken but palpable longing for the Stiles.

The scent surrounding Derek now reminds Peter of when his nephew started to smell all sweet and hopeful around that girl. Paige. And like now, Peter hated the scent back then. It makes his stomach twist. 

Peter tells himself, what he feels is anything but jealousy. Disgust, annoyance, slight anger at the fact that he can’t enter the loft anymore without that smell in his nose - but jealousy? No. 

There is no reason to be jealous. Peter is quite satisfied with his occasional hookups. Just overnight things. No strings, no attachment and, most importantly, no tedious talks about _feelings_. 

Most of the time, the guys Peter allows into his bed are totally on board with the idea of a one night stand and dutifully disappear before the sun rises. Sometimes, there is a guy who forgets what they agreed on and tries to contact him or has the audacity to actually reappear at his apartment. 

Well, Peter has his methods to scare them off. Derek would probably be shocked if he knew about all the guys that Peter made almost piss themselves with showing them a glimpse of the wolf. Peter likes to imagine he is the reason for a lot of therapy bills. He loves to imagine these guys, sitting there all trembling, trying to explain what they saw. “I ... I think I slept with a werewolf.” The thought makes Peter smirk. 

He quickly lets the smirk disappear again, because Scott frowns at him and probably wonders what kind of devious plan is brooding in Peter’s mind. 

None, would be the answer. Peter has no interest in being the villain of their story. 

He tries to look as harmless as possible and Scott eventually looks away again. 

Peter’s eyes flicker back to Derek and Stiles on the couch. They are sitting even closer now. Their shoulders are brushing. Stiles’ toes touch Derek’s. Stiles laughs at something that happens in the movie, and Derek throws him a glance that drips with fondness. 

_Gods._

His nephew is so desperately obvious in love, it hurts Peter’s head. At the same time, he can’t deny he feels a hint of careful happiness for Derek. He found someone and this time, it certainly won’t end in blood, fire or heartbreak. 

Stiles is good for Derek. He won’t hurt him. Won’t abandon him or trick him or reveal he is actually some kind of monster with a devious plan in mind. He is good. And Peter has always liked him the most, in this ragtag group of horrible teenagers. At least, he won’t have to force himself to act cheerful around Stiles. 

What his nephew is having, or about to have - if he would finally take the courage to talk to Stiles - is good. It will make him happy. 

Peter hates that these thoughts lead him to the question, what would make him happy. Did he even feel something close to happiness, lately? Satisfaction, yes. But, happiness? 

Mildly terrified, Peter cuts the thought off. 

* * *

A few days later, Peter makes a mistake. 

Somehow, the thoughts come back. They mingle with his least favourite memories of pack - _family_ \- and being content. When memories of a certain summer and a certain Argent join in, he can’t stand it anymore. 

He gets drunk on wolfsbane laced whiskey, seeks out a bar he has been successful at before, and when a guy puts his hand on his hip, Peter just lets himself be pulled into an alley. 

He lets the - averagely - attractive guy press him against the rough wall and carelessly bares his neck, closing his eyes. His senses are wonderfully dulled and he doesn’t smell the sudden burst of wolfsbane, until the knife already sticks in his stomach, cold and poisonous. 

Peter gasps in pain and reaches for it, his ears ringing. His fingers close around the handle, but he can’t pull it out, somehow. His legs buckle and he sinks down the wall, unable to hold himself upright. He drank … How many glasses of that stupid poisonous whiskey did he drink? He can’t even remember. He only knows that wolfsbane hits wolfsbane right now, two kinds of lethal poisons meeting in his body, in his veins. 

“Didn’t think it would be that easy,” the guy standing in front of him laughs, staring down at him. A hunter. A fucking hunter. And Peter can’t even tear him to shreds. He can only growl weakly. 

“Gerard Argent sends his regards,” the man says, sounding like a stupid Game of Thrones villain. “Take that as a warning. I hope the mongrels you call pack do too.” 

Then, he’s gone. Just like that. 

Peter groans and tries to heave his aching body up in vain. The alley is dark and the music coming from the bar at the end of it is loud. There is no one noticing he is literally dying here, on the fucking ground, just beside a puddle of beer. 

He can’t believe it is going to happen like this. The humiliation is what keeps him from giving up. He is definitely not going to die like this, stabbed in a dirty alleyway, drunk and tricked by a guy smelling like cheap aftershave. 

Peter huffs and fumbles for his mobile phone. Now he is glad he didn’t forget it. He squints at the bright screen, barely able to read the blurred letters. He goes through his contacts and he almost laughs, when he sees who the first one is. Christopher fucking Argent. Sure. Because his name starts with an A. It is kind of ironic, considering the stabbing was apparently a message from another Argent. This family seems to exist only to torture Peter.

Does he really want Argent to see him like this? 

Screw it, Peter thinks, when a wave of nausea hits him and he can feel his blood starting to boil. He doesn’t have much time. 

He dials and holds the phone to his ear, grimacing at the too loud high-pitched beeping noise coming from it. 

Argent picks up after seconds. “Peter?” Surprise mixed with wariness. 

“Chris,” Peter gasps into the phone, the world swaying dangerously. “I … I have a little problem.”

“What …”

“Was stabbed. Wolfsbane. And I drank … you know … like back then,” he coughs. 

A moment of silence. Then: “Fuck. Where are you, you fucking idiot?” 

Peter tells him. 

Chris promises to hurry. To be fast. 

Peter passes out before he can find out if Chris is fast enough. 

* * *

For a long time, there is nothing. 

Maybe, he died after all. It certainly felt like dying. But then … He thought he was dying when he burned, too, only to wake up in hospital. 

He floats in the darkness for what could be ages or only minutes, until his senses return to him one by one and he sees glimmers of light. 

Next, he hears Derek. His voice sounds angry, but there is also worry in it. Chris answers, his voice calm. But worried as well. Stiles is there too. Of course he is, Derek is here, after all. He chimes in from time to time. Peter isn’t able to make out actual words, but he can hear the worry in their voices. 

Great. Everyone’s worried. Peter guesses Chris told Derek where he found him. Just great. 

He forces his eyes open, wanting to know where he is, and immediately wants to close them again. The light is too bright and everything is white. When he focuses, he can smell antiseptic and cheap coffee in plastic cups. He knows that mix of smells. He also knows the feeling of cheap sheets under his skin. His stomach twists and he feels a rush of violent anger. He can’t believe it. They wouldn’t … 

“You didn’t …” he snarls, grimacing at how dry his throat is. “You didn’t seriously bring me to the hospital, let people touch me while I was out!”

There is stunned silence for a moment. 

“Hell yes, we did,” Derek snaps at him, “You were dying on the street, when Chris found you!”

“Dying _and_ not healing,” Stiles adds dryly from where he is leaning against the window sill, his arms crossed. 

Not healing. Well, that’s worrisome. Still. Peter can’t believe they put him here, where everyone could walk in and touch him, poke him, move him around … He shudders at a memory and scowls. 

“The only people touching you were Melissa and me,” Chris says, his voice tight. “The two kinds of wolfsbane, how they reacted to each other … I have never seen something like this before. Deaton is on a trip to China, helping a friend, so we were on our own. We had to figure out what would help. Melissa kept you alive with a mix of antidotes, she fought for hours, until I had to convince her to get some rest.” 

Peter frowns. He doesn’t understand. Melissa shouldn’t care so much, after all he bit her precious son. And now he notices how done Chris looks. He has dark bags under his eyes and looks like he didn’t shower or shave for days. Peter swallows in alarm. “How long …” 

“Four days,” Chris says curtly. 

Peter is speechless for a way too long moment. “Well, shit,” he murmurs eventually, sitting up in bed with a grimace. His body feels like it has been hit by a truck. “Thanks for saving my life, I guess. I’m going home.” 

“No, you won’t,” Chris says calmly. 

“What makes you so sure?” Peter snaps at him. 

“The fact that you are barely able to keep your eyes open. You are too weak to get out of bed, yet. Fucking rest,” Chris snarls back, crossing his arms. 

Peter scoffs. He ignores everyone and swings his legs out of bed, slowly heaving his body up. He knows it is a stupid idea the moment he puts weight on his feet, but he still tries. The moment he stands, he falls. He would have landed on the floor, if Chris hadn’t reacted in the matter of a blink and caught him. “Told you so,” he says dryly. 

Peter growls. He wants to kill the smug idiot. Maybe later. When he can stand again. “Fine,” he huffs, letting Chris dump him on the bed. “Fine. I’m staying.” 

Chris nods. “Yes, you are.” 

Derek looks between them and rolls his eyes. 

* * *

Peter hates everything about the hospital. He is so restless, he can’t sleep. 

He still thanks Melissa when she comes to see him. She only nods. “It’s what I do, you know,” she says while doing something with the IV, that contains painkillers, Peter assumes. “I save the lives of my patients. It doesn’t matter who the patient is at that moment.”

Peter just nods. He respects this woman. She belongs to the little group of humans he doesn’t despise. 

The rest of the day passes slowly. 

Peter stares at the plant Stiles brought him. A succulent. “It doesn’t need a lot of watering and it is very enduring, but it is still pretty,” Stiles said, smiling sheepishly. 

Before Peter could ask why Stiles bothered at all, the boy said, “I hate hospitals too, they always remind me of the time I visited my mother … She loved plants and I brought her many. I know that no one visited you, or brought you flowers when you … you know, when you were in a coma. I thought you would feel better, if things are different now.” 

“Thank you, Stiles,” Peter said, hoping it sounded honest. He was grateful. And, maybe, a bit moved. 

Stiles’ eyes brightened up and he grinned. “You are welcome.” 

Peter stares at the plant and thinks, _at least, it is not like last time._

But that doesn’t keep the memories from pushing at his mental walls. The memories of not being able to move at all, from laying in bed, forced to stare up at the ceiling and endure the scents, sounds and touches, forced to relive everything over and over again. A never ending fire in his mind. 

When Derek visits, Peter can see in his eyes that he is thinking about last time too. It never takes long until the bitter smell of guilt and regret starts to spread. 

Chris is different. Chris comes into the room with firm steps and hard eyes, demanding answers. 

“What were you doing there anyway?” 

Peter scowls. “None of your business.” 

“You have never been that careless,” Chris says with a frown. 

“Really? You sound like you think you know me,” Peter snarls. 

Chris shifts his weight. “Are you saying, I don’t know you?” 

“No. You don’t. A summer of fucking doesn’t make you know a person, I think,” Peter tells him, enjoying the twitch of Chris’ mouth at that, enjoying that he finally caused a reaction. 

“Alright. If you say so. But I do know that getting drunk on wolfsbane, basically poisening yourself, and then getting stabbed in an alleyway is stupid. Stupid and careless. Fucking suicidal,” Chris presses out between gritted teeth. 

“Why do you even care?” Peter hisses.

Something changes in Chris’ eyes. Peter hates it. So he looks away. Chris voice sounds strained now. “Peter, do you really think I don’t care about you? Do you think I forgot what we had? That I shoved it aside and never think about it?” 

Peter scoffs. “We were just two stupid teenagers, thinking we could beat the world. For one summer. It was nothing special.” 

Chris stares at him, chewing on his lip. Finally, his eyes go cold and he says, “I think I know why you did it. Yeah. I think you did it, because you are fucking bitter. You look at your life and you see it is miserable. You fucked up the whole damn time. You fucked up keeping your family safe, you fucked up with your revenge, killing Laura, biting a teenager and hurting Derek, you fucked up with your resurrection, because you had to use a teenage girl and traumatised her, and now you fuck up the rest of your life, not able to find something worth living for, something to fight for, while everyone else around you is living. That’s it. You are tired of your miserable, fucked up, broken life and you don’t want to feel that, so you try to numb it with drugging yourself and doing suicidal things. You are a fucking coward. A failure in your own eyes. And now you have to ask yourself all the time, what did I come back for? That’s it. That’s the truth.” 

He stops, breathing heavily. 

The silence in the room is deafening. 

Peter stares at Chris and Chris stares back. 

Derek enters the room, only to stop and take a step backward, frowning as he senses the tension in the room. 

Peter is at loss for words. His mind is trying to process the things Chris said. 

Chris clears his throat and looks away. “I tried to explain long ago, I can do it again. What we had that summer? It was the best thing that ever happened to me. My life was fucked up and it still is. I’m not scared to admit that to myself and to others. And what we had, it is one of the things that keeps me sane. I look back and I smile. I look back and I feel better, because I know, there was a time in my life, when I loved and I was loved. There was a time, when I felt strong, when I felt like I could be stronger than my abusive father. I wasn’t ready back then, I know that now. I wasn’t ready and I was a coward and that’s why I left. But I never forgot. I never regret. And I look at you, I see how different you are from the teenager I feel in love with, I see how different I am from my younger self, and I think, it doesn’t matter. I still want to have that again. With no other than you. That’s the truth. Nothing but the truth. Do with it, what you want.” 

With that, Chris turns and walks away, leaving the room. Derek looks after him, silently. Peter stares ahead, stares into the void, one single question in his mind. What the fuck was that? 

“He didn’t lie,” Derek says quietly. 

Peter sighs and massages his temples. His head is killing him. “I know. He was telling the truth. The whole time. About him. About me.” Realisation tastes bitter. He never liked it.

“He barely slept when you were unconscious,” Derek says. “He sat right there, on the chair beside your bed, and stared at you. Once, he held your hand.” 

Peter wants to scream. Or cry. Not necessarily in that order. “He’s right, Derek. I fucked everything up. And now … It is too late to fix anything.” 

“Why? He’s here. You’re here. You are both alive. You just have to go and talk to him.” 

Peter smiles weakly. “That’s not as simple as you make it sound, pup.”  
  
“I know that. I still didn’t talk to Stiles. And I have to,” Derek murmurs, sighing. “We … we shouldn’t try so hard to keep happiness away from us. We shouldn’t act like we don’t deserve it, or like we are too broken for it. They don’t deserve that. We don’t deserve it.”

Peter looks up at Derek, surprised at the wisdom, he sees in Derek’s eyes. Not a pup anymore. Not at all. “You are right,” he says quietly. 

He should finally throw his pride away and admit the truth to himself. 

* * *

Chris opens the door with a frown, a bottle of Scotch in his hand. It is not open yet. 

Peter has been at that point. But at least, Chris’ alcohol doesn’t contain addional poison. He reaches out and takes the bottle from Chris. The hunter lets him. 

“We need to talk,” Peter says. 

Chris nods. “Okay.” 

In the end, it lasts the whole night. And it is not easy. There is yelling. There are insults. But there is also hope. 

It ends with a soft "Idiot" and begins with a chaste kiss. 


End file.
